Danielle Pieratti - Rubric for Burying a Hen

“Your instinct for concern
is developing, but backwards.
Either farmwork or parenthood
has diminished your animal empathy,
though some maternal haunting
may nudge your score
into the proficient range.”

– Danielle Pieratti
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From a new collection of poems by Danielle Pieratti, Rubric for Burying a Hen is a heartbreaking account of what it is to fail to sustain someone or something in our care. Within the poem, there are threads of both self-castigation and a softer, more compassionate tone towards the narrator and her own humanity. In telling me about this poem, Danielle said, “Motherhood has heightened my sensitivity to loss in profound, sometimes disabling ways. I feel implicated in daily losses both big and small, and this poem attempts to grapple with that responsibility.” Rubric for Burying a Hen was first published by Dialogist.

Rubric For Burying A Hen

Your instinct for concern
is developing, but backwards.
Either farmwork or parenthood
has diminished your animal empathy,
though some maternal haunting
may nudge your score
into the proficient range.

Noting lethargy, diarrhea, her growing
tolerance for handling, you fail
to act quickly/need improvement.

Later, you try to forget/make
a joke of/intend to omit how
your daughter may have clocked her
on the head with the roost ramp.

II.

Your disturbance reflex
is proficient. You startle
when only two hens drop
from the hatch by mid-morning.
Then, opening the roost, you note
the head like a carved swan’s, recoil
at the thought of her
choosing this corner to die alone.

Additionally, you may leave
the body undisturbed,
not knowing why you raise
the ramp so the others
won’t discern her.

III.

Your appetite for grief
barely approaches standard.
When little pressed
you offer flatly to the children
that she died.

You may wait until after noon
to retrieve the body, noting tenderly
the still-supple neck (not bearing
to touch the belly
with its toxic egg) then bag
and hang it from a nail in the garage.

IV.

Your observance of ritual
earns three half-stars.
To yourself and the fox
you deny the grace of offering.

Though predictably,
your aesthetic demonstrates
an expert’s preference for rehearsed
distraction. You may first
walk gingerly to the creek,
leaning on your shovel, looking
half-heartedly for the tree
carved this year with the names
of your two cats.

After the funeral, perhaps you sit
for minutes on a bench you made
by hand, so convinced are you
of your belonging.